Without Mercy
by SandiBebop
Summary: I write angst. Get use to it. Harry goes insane. It's lovely. warnings: slash, violence, language, hate, and generally full of plotholes I'll expertly explain away later.


Author Note: NEW FIC. Why? Because I'm bored --

DO NOT FLAME. Why? Because I don't care --

Warnings: slash, violence, rage, language, angst, hate, and general insanity. Why? Because I'm tired. And when I'm tired, I get pissed off. And when I get pissed off I write horrible things that happen to Harry Potter.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own any of these characters, they are the rightful property of madam J.K. Rowling. I do NOT make any sort of profit (other than toward my ego). I do NOT claim anything other than the horrible situations I put the characters in.

Without Mercy

Chapter One

Your Ego Is Frightening

Really, you should have seen it coming.

I mean, why not?

Would any of them have decided differently? Would any of _you_ think so deeply, so profoundly on the subject, or found a more reasonable solution? Of course not. Because _they_ don't understand. Oh, they think they do. They _think_ they do, which makes this even better; makes this all the more sweeter. Because they just don't get it, do they? Oh, to say you understand or you know _exactly_ how another human being feels. We've all done it.

"Your broom was smashed beyond recognition? Well, that's never happened to me, but I'm sure I can dredge up some sort of uncomfortable feeling that could match yours. I know _just_ how you feel. "

"Mmhmm. Yes? Oh, well, I lost my favorite Wizarding Card once, so I can imagine… "

"What's that? Everyone you loved is dead? Every time you have a blissful, happy moment a tragedy occurs that defeats your joy tenfold? Hmm… I have an exam tomorrow, so I can relate…"

Idiots.

All of them.

Plain and simple.

They can _say_ they understand, that they can somehow indentify with another's emotional turmoil. And they could, if only they would fall into their own soul; if they could yield to their oh-so-precious ego and really allow themselves to _feel_ what it would be like.

Sit for just a moment and meditate on what it would really be like to loose a parent; that person who has seen you through the entirety of your life thus far, who loves you unconditionally simply because you exist. Breathe in and close your eyes, your mind from the ever-changing world around you. Listen to your breathing, your blood pumping, your heart beating. Think of your mother, your father, your little sister. Imagine that all the functions you are currently observing, the continuous tasks your body goes through to validate your existence, were to suddenly stop for _them._

Can you feel it, yet? Yes? Is it welling up inside of you? Don't imagine them in the act of _dying_, no. That would be morbid. Simply contemplate their nonexistence. You feel it now, don't you? That increasing sense of sorrow. Take another breath, don't start to cry. They're really not dead, are they? But just thinking about it hurts, because you come to realize that they _will_ one day die. You don't have to_ accept_ it, though. That would be too much for your ego, your pathetic sense of self, your undying love for your own being.

But I've accepted it.

I know you'll all die.

I've cried for you, though you remain among the living.

Yet… I'm sure you're all still perplexed, and will wake up day after day, morning upon morning wondering why.

"Why?"

How can you even **ask?** Are you so dense? So inept? Is it the magic? Have you become so reliant on it, so dependent upon this thing to solve each and every little task and problem for you that you can no longer manage even the smallest inkling of common sense?

Look at me.

Sitting here, not even bothering to fake the smile, the good-natured chuckle. Yet you stand beside me, all of you. Smiling at me, but never with me. I'd rather you stood with me. But I brought this upon myself, I suppose.

Moving about life with all the calm in the world. I scare you. Though you smile and wave, I know it's not for my well being, but your own. If you can just look toward me for a sense of direction, of purpose, then maybe it will all be just fine in the end.

But I've seen the way you move. Always at some variable distance. Never close enough to being pulled into my wretched orbit of grotesque understanding. But never far enough away to avoid the punches thrown.

It's almost as though you know. But, if you knew, then you'd understand. And we already went through that little theory…

Imagine it as a sunny day turned hazy. The clouds gather, and rain falls. You think nothing of it at the time; the rain will stop, but it get's heavier. So you run. Run towards cover, shelter, away from the thunder you've just noticed. You're just about to climb the steps, go through the door; you're already planning which tea you'll have to rid you of the unsavory chill, already digging into your mind to remember just which shelf it was on. Then you smell it.

Oh, did you think you were alone? Not another living thing in sight?

We all know that smell… it triggers a spasm at the back of your tongue, fills your nostrils and sends a shot of adrenaline down your spine. If you weren't expecting it, or couldn't explain it, it would probably make you vomit. It's sweet, yet sour, and sends your heart racing with an increasing sense of dead.

Ah, that unmistakable stench of wet fur.

That's me.

You _should_ have expected it. _Should_ have been able to explain it.

Really, you should have seen this coming.


End file.
